


Jamie (Eventually) Shuts Up

by Zabbers



Category: In the Loop (2009), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Promptfic, flashfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 19:52:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15056552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zabbers/pseuds/Zabbers
Summary: In answer to the very important questions: "Who initiates duets? and who is the better singer? Who is more seductive when they are drunk? and who is louder in bed? Who falls asleep in the others lap and who carries them to bed?"





	Jamie (Eventually) Shuts Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ileolai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ileolai/gifts).



By the time the question of culpability comes up, it's beside the point, and, more _to_ the point, both Jamie and Malcolm are too mad with it to remember exactly who it was started singing (probably Jamie). Well, if one of them’s gonnae be kicked out, of course the other’s going too, and the boozer’s really too _nice_ \--there’s no fruit machine, Malcolm thinks as he bundles Jamie into the street, and he can still just about make out on the board by the bar the ghost of the evening’s sold-out special to have been dukkah-crusted Middlewhite--more gastro than pub, too nice by far, to have to put up with them on a night like this one. 

In Malcolm’s living room, though, Jamie’s boisterousness turns maudlin. His voice goes sweet. Malcolm goes silent as Jamie sings on, clear and evocative in spite of the gravel of a throat dry from a day’s shouting and smoking and from the night’s pints and noise. Malcolm was never much of one for nostalgia; it makes him uncomfortable. But Jamie’s singing does to Malcolm just what he hates most about nostalgia. It makes him long for a past that never was. Not even Jamie was that innocent, that good. Not even Jamie could have lived that prelapsarian perfection.

Certainly, the Jamie who notices Malcolm’s quiet attention isn't innocent. His face becomes sly. His hips are suddenly soft, open. His stupidly big eyes crinkle around the corners and his mouth smiles invitingly, and Malcolm is sure that the way his body just folds onto the sofa with Jamie when Jamie pulls him in by the waist is entirely involuntary. His groan is also beyond his control when Jamie immediately drops trou and pushes their groins together, Malcolm’s cock frustratingly, painfully constricted by good fabric and quality leather while Jamie’s springs up inside his ratty boxers like a happy Labrador under a picnic blanket. 

But Jamie seems content to sprawl out over the length of Malcolm and kiss him, subtly applying his weight over his chest so that he’s forced to breathe in shallow, excited breaths. Jamie’s cuffs and collar had come undone hours ago, his tie lost or shoved in a pocket or tangled up with the power cables and the crumpled files in his briefcase. Malcolm scrabbles at his own, fighting to loosen the knot and unfasten the button underneath before he’s strangled altogether by the satanic coalition of lust and sartorial good taste. 

Jamie takes this as a cue. He’s at Malcolm’s belt and tugging his shirt out of his waistband, hands on his belly and across his ribs and over his erection. Malcolm eases his way out of his trousers before they're ripped, ridding himself of his pants in the same go, bare, bare to Jamie’s grip and to Jamie producing the condom and unfurling it over him. The lube is shockingly chilly, followed almost immediately with the heat of the inside of Jamie’s body, Jamie having upended what must have been most of the bottle to make Malcolm that slick, to seat himself so easily on Malcolm’s cock, to fuck himself straight away, squatting, his thighs already beginning to shake with the effort of balance. 

Malcolm, propped up against a pillow, wraps his hands around the curve of Jamie’s back. He watches Jamie’s penis slap against their stomachs, the tendons strain in his neck, and most of all Jamie’s face, his eyes unbearably, wonderfully intent. He fights to hold himself off for Jamie. He struggles to stay hard and not come. He makes Jamie hold still, now suspended above him, now all the way in, his arse against Malcolm’s balls. The sound that starts at the slow descent builds into an imploring, alto whine, but a wicked one; Jamie knows full well Malcolm’s concerns about the neighbours-- _Wheesht!_ \--and Jamie grins, until Malcolm shifts, serious, fitting himself that much more fully into Jamie while freeing a hand to curl around Jamie’s cock. 

When Jamie comes it's pure fucking indecently loud, but the look of him is so glorious--sweat-soaked, skin flushed, muscles tight, absolute and all abandon--that Malcolm forgets to care. He's still hard inside Jamie, but he does care about the mess on his torso and the state of his sofa, possibly irremediable already, and so, somehow, he convinces Jamie to stand while he goes for a towel, wincing at the dripping sensation, careful. 

As soon as he has the worst of it wiped up, though, Jamie makes him sit down again, settling himself lengthwise along the cushions. Jamie’s spent a lot of evenings by Malcolm’s side, speaking in his ear of what he'll do to specific political fuckups and of what he'd _like_ to do to him, sometimes in the same sentence. His mouth’s the same with Malcolm in it: creative, and he knows just what gets Malcolm off. It's a calmer kind of a thing, a long, thoughtful rebuilding, and by the end of it Malcolm is frantic, his fingers tight in Jamie’s hair. 

He can feel Jamie smile around him, and then Jamie does something like he's spiralling his tongue as he pumps his head, and then the impossible tension inside Malcolm’s bollocks pulls itself through him, into Jamie, what feels like forever, until Jamie has all of him, until, finally, Jamie lays his cheek on Malcolm’s thigh and looks up at him, content. Malcolm strokes Jamie’s hair, the damp curls already relaxing as they dry. 

Malcolm’s not strong enough to carry Jamie (heavy; the wee fighter’s more muscle than he looks) up the stairs to bed, but when he nods off on Malcolm’s lap, Malcolm slides onto the sofa beside him, fitting himself into the space left for him by the shape of Jamie’s sleeping body. There's not much room, and it's hot, wrapping himself around Jamie all night, but it's always the best night’s sleep he has.


End file.
